Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  “I am not otherwise engaged tomorrow,” he said, rather pleased to be included in such a meeting, although perhaps his status as one of the finders of the body gave him a claim.

  “Noon, then, at the Dower House,” he said.

  “Noon at the Dower House,” he repeated, smiling at the prospect.

  ~~~~~

  Laurence strolled down the drive to the Dower House at half past eleven, for it would not do to be late. He carried a bottle in his hand, for when he reflected over his previous wine offerings, he realised that he had not given her any Canary. The dogs had not been invited, but they had decided to accompany him anyway, the younger two chasing each other through the shrubbery, and the oldest trotting sedately at his heels.

  The footman saw him coming and had the front door open. “You are expected, sir.”

  “But the dogs are not. Will you enquire if they are welcome?”

  But they were, and in they bounced, running up the hall and back again before following him into the study. It looked less like a study now and more like a lady’s boudoir. The dark rug had gone, replaced with something brighter, and a round table and a davenport stood in place of the heavy desk. Vases of daffodils added colour, and there were two small pictures on the walls.

  “Codlington and Roseacre,” she said, in answer to his questioning look. “Very inferior, since I painted them myself, but my husband liked them and had them framed, so they have sentimental value to me.” She bent to scratch the dogs’ ears. “Now you three will have to behave, for my house is not so large as yours. You may sit by the fire while the humans are talking.” Then, looking up at Laurence with a mischievous grin, “Shall we try the Canary at once?”

  “I was hoping you would say that.”

  With a chuckle, she said, “I am not at all sure whether I am a bad influence on you, or you on me.”

  He laughed easily. “We are good influences on each other.”

  They had barely got the bottle open and taken the first sip when the knocker sounded again, and the squire and Beasley were shown in. They were early, too. More Canary was poured, chairs arranged in a ring and they all looked expectantly at Beasley.

  “We have a name,” he said slowly. “Dilys Hughes, a housemaid at the Hall, who got herself in the family way and was sent packing. She agreed to go home, and was given her pay to the end of the year and her fare for the stage coach, pretty generous treatment. Two of the servants at the Hall helped her pack and saw her onto the stage for Shrewsbury. They are still at the Hall and we have spoken to them, so there is no doubt at all that she boarded the stage. We cannot say what happened to her in Shrewsbury, but certain it is that she never arrived at her home, for we have been there and talked to several members of her family. It is a tiny Welsh village, so everyone would have known if she had turned up, but she never did.”

  “Did she not let them know of any change of plans?” Laurence said. “Were they not concerned?”

  “None of them could read or write, so they had not seen or heard from her for years,” Beasley said. “She went into service at ten years of age in the local manor house, but the old gentleman died and she went to Shrewsbury to find work, ending up at the Hall. Her parents never expected to see her again after that, so they knew nothing of her disgrace. And we are left with a puzzle. Did she get off the stage before it left the village? Or did she go all the way to Shrewsbury and then, for some reason, return here? And in either case, why?”

  “What about her lover in all this?” Mrs Middlehope said. “Presumably there was no possibility of marriage?”

  Beasley shrugged. “There were a number of possibilities. Dilys was one of those girls whose morals were somewhat suspect. No one seems to have been terribly surprised to find that she was with child. She herself accepted it calmly. I daresay her plan was to go home, have the child, foist it on her hapless parents and then go back into service, but something happened to prevent it.”

  “Or some one,” the squire said grimly.

  “Perhaps,” Beasley said. “Impossible to say. All we know for certain is that she died very shortly after she left the Hall.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” Mrs Middlehope said.

  “Ah, now that is the interesting part,” Beasley said, leaning forward in sudden animation. “The skeletal remains of the child within her, combined with the information we have from the Hall, enable us to estimate the date with some precision. You see, the development of the unborn infant is such that—”

  “We will take your word for it,” Mrs Middlehope said. “For myself, the precise details are unnecessary. Have you any idea as to how the poor girl died? Poison, perhaps?”

  Beasley shook his head. “The manner of her death, and whether it was by her own hand or otherwise, or even an accident cannot be determined, but…” He frowned. “I am not happy about it, not happy at all.”

  “I would go further,” the squire said. “That girl was murdered, I am convinced of it. Locking herself into the wine cellar? Nonsense! Besides, when all this happened, the Dower House was still lived in. A very elderly relation — Great-aunt Elizabeth, Thomas used to call her — had the place then, with a full staff, so how she got inside unobserved is beyond me.”

  “Who is Thomas?” Mrs Middlehope said.

  “Lord Saxby, the recent one. What was he, the sixth? Yes, the sixth. He called her Great-aunt, but I think she was a Great-great-aunt, in fact. The point is that the house was inhabited.”

  “I can quite easily believe that she got in, for working houses leave doors unlocked and windows open all the time,” Mrs Middlehope said. “What I can not believe is that she lay down in the wine cellar and died, and no one noticed anything odd. We once had a pigeon fall down a chimney and get wedged in, somehow, so that the creature perished. We could not see it, but we knew it was there — the smell was abominable. If Dilys Hughes lay dead in that basement, someone would have found her.”

  “That is a good point,” Beasley said, finishing the last drop of Canary in his glass and setting it down on a table. “However, Great-aunt Elizabeth died twenty-eight years ago and Dilys Hughes conceived her child twenty-nine years ago, and there is no getting around that. If it is indeed Dilys Hughes who was lying in that wine cellar, then she must have died there when the house was occupied.”

  “Is there any evidence that she died elsewhere and was brought here only after the house was empty?” Laurence said, frowning as he tried to work it out.

  “No evidence that I can detect,” Beasley said. “That would also raise the question of just where she had been for at least a year.”

  “And who brought her body here,” Mrs Middlehope said. “Which brings us back to the matter of her lover. If she was murdered, or even if she died by her own hand somewhere else and was brought here, then there was another person involved and who else could it be but her lover?”

  A silence fell on the room. The dogs were dozing by the fire, but the four humans were far from asleep. Laurence could not make head or tail of it. Why would anyone, no matter how desperate, sneak into an inhabited house, lock herself into the wine cellar and then die? Or if she died elsewhere and someone came upon the body, why move it to the Dower House? It made no sense. He latched on to some words of Beasley’s…

  “You said if it is Dilys Hughes… but what if it is not?” He had a sudden vivid memory of embroidered shoes with a silver buckle. “Those were not housemaid’s shoes — and the cloak with silver fastenings! That is no housemaid.”

  “You see, Beasley?” the squire said with a note of triumph. “Exactly what I have been saying myself, Gage. The shoes, the cloak, the quality of the clothes generally all suggest someone other than Dilys Hughes. If it were some other woman, it could have happened later when the house was empty and it would be a lot less puzzling.”

  Beasley shook his head. “It is highly improbable that there were two such women in the same village, both with child, both disappearing from the face of the earth. For if that bod
y is not Dilys Hughes, then what happened to her? Where did she go to? No, it makes far more sense if it is her. A pregnant woman vanishes — the body of a pregnant woman is found many years later. It must be her. But as to how she died or why she was locked in your wine cellar, Mrs Middlehope, I cannot say, and I do not feel I can pursue the matter any further.”

  “But there is much more that could be done,” Laurence said. “Have you asked, for instance, if any other women disappeared at that time? What about the stage? It might be possible to trace the coach driver and guard, who might remember something. It is a long shot, I agree, but something might be discovered.”

  “That is what I should like to do,” the squire said, “but neither I nor Beasley can give up any more time to it. What we need is someone like Miss Saxby. You will not know this, Mrs Middlehope, but when Lord Saxby died in January, there was a rumour that his end had been hastened by someone driving a stake through his heart, and the simple-minded boy who sharpens knives was arrested for it. He could not say where he had been that day, you see. But Miss Saxby set out to discover it all, and found people who would vouch for him being out at Overbury that day, so that he could not possibly have been anywhere near Lord Saxby. Clever girl, Cass Saxby, but she must not do so again. It is not fitting. However, I do not see what is to be done. If the girl had relations who were willing to pay for an investigation, we might get a Runner up here, but as it is—”

  “I can pay,” Laurence said at once. “I have no idea how to engage a Bow Street Runner, but I can certainly pay if one can be found.”

  “Now that is something that I might be able to help with,” Mrs Middlehope said. “Not a Runner, but there are some people in London who are very experienced at this kind of investigation — murder and so forth. They solved the hat pin murder in Hartlepool last year.”

  “I remember that,” Beasley said, pleased. “Very ingenious, both the murder and the resolution of it. It was very well covered in the London newspapers. Well, if Gage is prepared to pay the costs, then perhaps you will be good enough to write to these people, Mrs Middlehope.”

  Beasley and the squire took their leave, but Laurence stayed on. Mrs Middlehope refilled their glasses and they removed to the chairs by the fire, the dogs at their feet. And they talked. It was an odd thing, but he could talk to her about anything. Dilys Hughes occupied their thoughts at first, naturally, but when that had been gone over they moved on to the dinner the previous night, and how pretty Henrietta had looked, and how rowdy the Platt brothers had been, and how pleasant Susannah Winslade was.

  “But I hardly got to talk to Miss Cokely at all,” Mrs Middlehope said. “We exchanged three sentences before dinner, and afterwards by the time I had left the instrument, the card tables were being arranged. However, her little headband was adorable. I shall go and see her as soon as I may to get one just like it. And what is your opinion of Mr Truman? Everyone seems to think well of him.”

  “Not as well as he thinks of himself.”

  “Oh! You dislike him.”

  “He is… oily. A little too puffed up in his own importance for a clergyman. But I know no harm of him, except that he is excessively handsome and has all the ladies in his pocket, but I suppose he cannot help that.”

  She laughed. “Not all the ladies, surely?”

  “Even Henrietta becomes a little tongue-tied in his presence,” he said soberly. “I should not like to see her in thrall to such a man, even though she is too young to attract his attention.”

  “That is fortunate, for he is the sort of man who could be devastating to a woman’s heart if once he turns his charm on her. Personable, sensible, well mannered and with an independent fortune — and very, very charming.”

  “A paragon of his sex, then,” he said, aware of a certain sourness in his words.

  But she only laughed again. “Certainly, for he embodies every masculine virtue, perfection personified.”

  “So you are in thrall to him, too,” he said, unreasonably downcast by the thought.

  “I may have mentioned to you before that I find perfection uninteresting,” she said, smiling at him with such warmth that he was heartened. “Human foibles are far more to my taste, and, in my experience, even the most perfect of men has some flaw concealed within. Your wife may be a noble exception, but for myself I never knew anyone so perfect as to have no fault at all. My friend Mrs Deerham knew Mr Truman in Shrewsbury, and she says that he was not well liked at school and that she fears he is ambitious, but that could be said of any number of men, I daresay.”

  “Ambitious? Hmm, it could be. It is widely believed that he is hanging out for a wife, and when he arrived last year he was definitely dangling after Agnes Saxby.”

  “The plain one?”

  He chuckled. “That is the one. A good-natured girl, and got herself entangled with Edser, the apothecary, at one time, but her father put a stop to that. She is very keen to marry, and Truman was definitely prowling round her. Then her father died, it was discovered that her dowry was far less than supposed and suddenly he has veered away. Agnes herself says she has no expectations in that quarter. So he is ambitious, yes, and avaricious, too. If ever he starts making up to Cass Saxby, you will know the truth of it, for she was thought to be penniless and a settled spinster at six and twenty, but when her father died it was discovered she is an heiress to the sum of seventy thousand pounds. A fine prize for a country parson, no? Is that Hugh Blair’s sermons I see on the table? What do you think of him?”

  And so they talked on, until half the day was gone. William came in once with cake and buns, and to tend the fire, but otherwise nothing disturbed them. It was the most comfortable thing in the world to sit like that, the dogs around their feet, a glass of Canary on the table beside them, not often touched but reassuringly there, and simply talk without any reserve.

  It had not been so with Catherine. She had always been working on one of her complicated embroidery patterns and needed to concentrate, so when they were alone they had sat companionably enough, but in silence, he reading and she sewing, and he had never felt there was anything lacking. But of course that was different. Catherine was his beloved wife, his perfect wife, and he had not needed anyone else, not then.

  Now he was alone, and although he would never insult Catherine’s memory by marrying again, it pleased him that he had found such a good friend.

  ~~~~~

  ‘The Dower House, Great Maeswood, Shropshire. 20th March. To Msrs Edgerton, Chandry & Associates ~ Sirs, We have never met, but relations of mine had the privilege of witnessing your skill at Hartlepool last year. Now I find myself with a similar mystery. My new home, having been empty for more than a quarter century, proved to have an unexpected tenant - the body of a young woman who had seemingly locked herself into the wine cellar and then died by some means. It is also possible that she died elsewhere and was subsequently moved to the cellar. Her identity has been guessed to be that of a housemaid from the adjoining house, but the dates and her clothing dispute this. Neither the reason for her death nor the manner of it have been determined, despite thorough investigation by the coroner and magistrate. They can do no more, but if you are willing to investigate further, your fees and expenses will be met in full. I am willing to furnish additional details, or supply the directions of the coroner and magistrate if required. I am sure you will agree with me that every untimely death, even one from so long ago, must be investigated and brought to a just conclusion if humanly possible, and I very much hope that you will undertake this commission. I look forward to your early response. Yours, Mrs Edward Middlehope.’

  ~~~~~

  ‘Oxford Street, London. 21st March. How fascinating! We are on our way. Captain M Edgerton.’

  10: Edgerton, Chandry And Associates

  Louisa had been informed by Miss Gage that she was to be at home to receive callers on Thursdays. She had also been provided with a helpful list of all the ladies of Great Maeswood and the surrounding villages, and the days
on which they would be receiving callers. Although there was something horrifying about being so regimented, she found it amusing too, for she had no intention of being constrained. She might, perhaps, be at home on Thursdays if she felt so inclined, but otherwise she would do exactly as she had in County Durham — if she liked a person, she would call upon her when she felt like it and if she was not at home, then so be it. But if she was not interested in a person, however grand she may be, then she would not bother to call at all. There was no point, to her mind, in diligently cultivating acquaintances whose company gave one no pleasure.

  On the Monday following, she found herself at liberty to walk about the gardens and see what needed to be done. The Timpson brothers were making good progress on the vegetable beds, and had already begun sowing and planting, although when she enquired as to the delights in store for her, they unpromisingly replied, ‘Tatoes’. She stifled a sigh, for she was getting very tired of boiled potatoes.

  Leaving them to it, for vegetables, even such boring ones as potatoes, were more important than flowers, she wandered around what had once been pleasure grounds, assessing the weedy borders and wildly overgrown shrubs to see what she might be able to do herself. She had never minded getting earth on her hands, and the weeds were crying out for the attention of a patient lady with a trowel, but there were more urgent matters. A number of roses stood in need of hard pruning, and she would start with those beside the front door. Borrowing a pruning knife from the Timpsons, for her own was still in transit, she began cutting.

  She had not made more than half a dozen cuts before a post-chaise and four turned into the drive, the horses lathered and near to exhaustion. It came to a halt, the door opened and a small man, swaddled in a greatcoat adorned with a vast number of capes, jumped down. Beneath the greatcoat, she caught a glimpse of a garish blue and yellow striped waistcoat, and was that a sword he was wearing? It was!